


Leveled

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, M/M, Mirror Universe, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 18:46:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3739471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yeoman Kirk serves his captain for all the wrong reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leveled

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for michelliverse’s “slave Kirk, captain Spock” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s on his knees again, without even having to be asked.

Another captain might’ve ordered him. Pushed him. Grabbed his hair and made him kneel.

But not _his_ captain, and that might be part of why he does it in the first place. 

He settles between Spock’s spread thighs like he belongs there, his fingers running up the black, standard-issue pants that they both wear, though the colour above Spock’s sash is gold and Jim’s is red. Spock has sleeves—his choice—and Jim’s arms are exposed almost up to the crook of his neck, because yeomen don’t have the right to hide their bodies. Being a yeoman is little more than being a _slave_. 

But he’s _Spock’s_ yeoman, and Jim plays that role well. 

He massages the bulge in Spock’s trousers before he takes it out. He rubs the heel of his palm against it, feeling the thick outline and curve imposed on it by the tight confines of clothes, and he leans in to brush his lips over the end, eyes flickering up to see his captain’s face. Spock has stopped his work in favour of watching Jim; the only one he ever bothers watching. But then, Jim might be the only one he bothers touching. Jim is good enough to surpass all others—even though Spock has a right to anyone he wishes, who else could fill his bed so perfectly as _James T. Kirk_ , who lives to serve him and is perfectly trained to please?

Jim has aspirations of his own. If he’s going to start at the very bottom, he’ll at least do it under the most powerful man aboard, and he’ll be the only one there. He keeps his eyes locked with Spock’s as he reaches into Spock’s pants, pulling out the long, hard shaft that twitches so readily in his hands. He pets through the dark tufts of hair at the base and wraps his fingers all around it, his chin jutting forward. He lets his eyelids half lower, and he presses his lips against the pointed head, peeking up through green, wrinkled foreskin. In a mockery of affection, Jim kisses his prize, lingering to let Spock savour the view. 

Then he dips his tongue below it and runs right down to the base, wetting the entire length and nuzzling into Spock’s crotch, inhaling deeply. He hears Spock’s breath hitch, tiny but there. Jim doesn’t just pleasure Spock’s dick: he _worships_ it. He relishes in the act, and he forms a bond between them, knowing just how to play on Spock’s subdued, restrained touch-telepathy. Jim knows they have a _connection_ , and he feeds his passion into that every time he takes his captain’s cock, tangling those forbidden emotions from wanton lust to _love_.

No one really _loves_ in the Terran Empire, of course. It’s a fairy tale that only a few naïve souls bother to keep alive. But Jim pushes the illusion as close as he can, because he’s ambitious, relentless—he’s not going to be on the bottom forever—and each time he sucks Spock’s dick, he gets a little bit closer—one promotion at a time; Spock’s _weak_ , he _wants_ Jim, Jim’s sure of it—and if he lets Jim climb, Jim will _fly_ —and maybe, just maybe, there’s also a small, traitorous part of Jim that _likes_ this. 

Jim _likes_ the weight of Spock’s drooping cock atop his tongue. He likes the way it stiffens in his hand when he holds it up, always responding so easily to his touch. He likes the green veins that slither around it, the dry skin that glistens with his spit. He rubs the shaft against his face, letting it wedge up along his nose and poke into his hair, precum slicking against his forehead—little, white beads, a tad sweeter and thicker than human seed. As he draws his way back down towards the head, the milky trail slithers down his cheek, until it’s finally draped across his lips and poking into his mouth. He kisses the tip again, suckling lightly to tease out the seed that’s waiting for him, and one of Spock’s hands drops off the table above and into Jim’s hair. 

The long fingers smooth through the yellow-brown strands. It took a long time to get Spock to _touch_ him like that, but now it happens almost every time. Sometimes, if Jim’s lucky, Spock will even _pull_ his hair, used it to yank his head back and expose his throat, or hold him down to pound harder into him. For now, Spock only pets him, in a way that should make Jim feel like a dog but only makes him feel like a _lover_. 

Some days, he hates Spock for that. Others, like today, he starts to take the half-Vulcan into his mouth, and he adores the taste too much for anything but pleasure. 

He doesn’t have to go slowly. With the shit cards Jim’s been dealt in life, he’d never be aboard a starship at all if he couldn’t use his mouth well enough. He could swallow Spock in one go, but for whatever reason, he prolongs it, teasingly taking one little bit at a time. The slow slide of Spock’s shaft along his tongue is strangely soothing, like the way Spock pulses, the head nudging up against the back of his throat, until he readjusts and lifts up to take more. It hasn’t been a good day if he hasn’t felt Spock down his throat. Despite the hefty girth, Jim takes him surprisingly easily: the fit just right. He takes Spock to the very hilt, so that his chin is pressing into Spock’s still-clothed balls, his nose buried in the scratch of Spock’s pubic hair. The scent is thick, musky, but strangely arousing, almost overwhelming. Jim takes a moment to grow used to it, while Spock leans back in his chair. Lax posture is uncharacteristic on him, but Jim has a way of bringing out his humanity. When Jim glances up, Spock is looking down. His dark eyes are slightly clouded, his lips slightly parted. He runs his hand back through Jim’s hair again, and Jim has the gnawing urge to mess up Spock’s perfect straight-across bangs, nuzzle into his black stubble and bite the pointed tips of his ears. 

Then Jim has to shut himself down again. He doesn’t have to take Spock to bed. He can wrap Spock around his finger from here. But he still can’t shake the images of a naked captain, sprawled out in the bed with all his long limbs, lithe waist and brown nipples, just waiting for Jim’s tongue to lap over them. Taking Spock, being taken by Spock—rolling around in the sheets is too fun. Too enjoyable. When Spock’s cheeks start to tint green and the _desire_ clouds his features, he becomes _irresistible._

Jim wants him. Always has. But that’s a foolish notion, so Jim crushes it down and tells himself that he does this for power, nothing else. 

He begins to slip off the perfect cock in his mouth, only to thrust back in, smooth and fluid, right back down his throat. He bobs with a tight, neat efficiency. There’s a lewd, wet noise that comes on every few thrusts. He tries not to moan, to give himself away. He hums instead. He pours the vibrations into Spock’s dick, and in between stanzas, he pauses to suck, making a meal out of it. Even with nothing but the hard deck plating under his knees and no spoken words between them, Jim enjoys the act. He lets his hands run up Spock’s thighs and smooth over Spock’s stomach, bypassing the sash and slipping under the gold tunic. Spock doesn’t stop him. Spock’s fingers twist in his hair, encouraging but not pulling. Not yet. More of the precum is welling up: a bonus of Vulcan anatomy: a steady stream. Jim has to swallow constantly to keep up, letting the hot liquid pool in his stomach. It’s strangely satisfying. 

Spock’s boot nudges against Jim’s hip, and it jars him. He realizes that he’s gotten hard again. His hips are slowly gyrating in the air, grinding against nothing but the front of his pants. If he asked, Spock would probably finish him off. Pride keeps him quiet. But he always _loves it when Spock touches him._ Spock has such long, powerful fingers, and even with only those, he can take Jim to new heights. Jim moans from thinking of it, betraying himself, and Spock hisses above him. He can see on Spock’s face that Spock’s trying not to growl. He doesn’t want to lose his control any more than Jim does. But this is a dangerous game they’re playing, and resistance is difficult. 

Jim looks away again, shuts his eyes and concentrates on sucking, on bobbing up and down and humming. He tries to detach himself from it being _Spock_ , even though he’s much too far gone for that: he knows every detail. He knows the exact taste of Spock’s cum, of his skin, the shape of his shaft, the pattern of his veins, the rhythm of his pulsing and the size: how much space in Jim’s mouth he takes up, how far he goes down Jim’s throat. It’s just for power. Jim thinks it but doesn’t believe it. He adores his captain’s cock. He knows that. Nothing else ever fills him so well, tastes so good, feels so right. He _belongs_ on the end of Spock’s dick, even if he just wanted to belong in space, in the captain’s chair, that he’s thus far only sat in while riding Spock’s lap...

He comes before Spock does. He doesn’t have Vulcan stamina. He isn’t even touching himself, but he spills in his pants from sheer want alone. He moans his release, shivering with his orgasm, and Spock pets him with two hands, soothing him like a reward for coming: a good dog that spent himself at his master’s feet. In the high of his orgasm, he can’t feel bad about it. 

He feels triumphant, and a little sorry it’s over, when he pulls Spock past the edge with him. Spock sighs when he comes, like he always does, strangely languid and luxurious. His cock spurts a thicker stream down Jim’s throats, so that Jim has to swallow rapidly on repeat for it not to spill out. He’s let it spill out before. He’s let Spock drench his face, his chest, his ass, the small of his back—every last part of him has worn Spock’s seed at one time or another. But this time, he only drinks it, savouring the unique, salt-sweet taste. 

Even when he’s done, he lingers. Spock’s puttered out into only little drips, but Jim stays on to catch them all. He suckles lightly, drawing what he can, prolonging the conjoining of their bodies. His captain’s cock has become something of a soother. Jim keeps it in his mouth as long as he can, until Spock gently pushes him off. 

He wants to be angry. Everything about the Empire is easier when you’re angry. But he’s never truly _mad_ at Spock. 

He pushes to his feet out of pride and asks, “Do you want a coffee?” It comes out hoarse: his throat’s raw. Fetching coffee is what yeomen are _supposed_ to do. Spock looks up at him. Both their cocks are still hanging out, datapads still strewn across the table. Jim has the familiar urge to kiss him, if only to dirty his high-ranking mouth with his own seed. 

Spock merely nods: an adapted human gesture. 

Jim heads to the Synthesizer, ordering coffee for two.


End file.
